


recruited

by arabellagaleotti



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Military, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Military, Military Training, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), SHIELD, but you aint meant to know that yet, so i never said anything, spideychelle bby, we will ignore that small detail, well technically that never happens but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24727687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabellagaleotti/pseuds/arabellagaleotti
Summary: Ever since everything happened, since the bite, his life has been spiraling. He’s too big and bloody and violent for the life of a 17-year-old geek. He’s ripping out of it and discarding the pieces.He looks at Ned, and MJ. His only friends, the girl he maybe could have liked, and he turns. Back to Fury, back to the guns pointed at him and the future he’s bound to have.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Nick Fury & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> repost cause im a dumbass and deleted it :)

It’s a nice funeral. It is. It’s sunny, and the grounds are beautiful, and everyone who ever meant anything to Mr Stark is there. Pepper pushes his heart out to the lake like it’s a Viking funeral, like Hawkeye’s about to string his bow. Peter nearly loses it, to be honest. He wants to sob, and cry and scream and tell everyone to _stop pretending this is okay!_ But he doesn't. He can't. 

He just stands there and blinks back tears and looks at his daughter. The daughter that won't ever get to know him, like he got to know him. 

After the service, they go inside. Peter gulps down two glasses of water immediately and stares at the wall. 

“Peter,” Pepper says, and puts her hand on his shoulder. 

He turns. She looks nice. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she’s cried, obviously (duh, Peter, you’re so stupid, her husband has died, of course she’s crying)

“Hi,” she says gently. “How are you?”

He swallows. “I’m okay I’ll be okay.”

“I know that Tony meant a lot to you,” Peter just nods and shrugs little, looking downwards. Pepper guides his eyes back upwards. “You meant so much to him too, Peter. He always felt guilty about not being able to save you”

“It wasn't his fault,” Peter mumbles. 

“I know this. He didn't. Tony could never handle things like that.” She reaches over and plucks the framed photograph from the shelf. It’s them, before the snap when Peter was presented with the Stark certificate. He’s grinning and holding it upside down, Mr Stark’s doing that thing where he tries not to look impressed. He was so happy, then. He was so thrilled. He remembers it so well, and it's like he can take a big step back and time and return to that moment. He wishes he could be back there when everything was -- different. it wasn't easier, or less uncomplicated, but it was known territory, and now, at Tony Stark's funeral, Peter is blind, here. 

“Oh,” he breathes out and takes it into his hands. 

“It’s been up since the snap,” she smiles softly, sounding sad. “He never forgot you, Peter.”

—

School is okay. Life is okay. It’s hard. It’s all hard, after everything. Everyone was hurt by the Snap, of course. He came back different than anybody else. They came back, and they were happy to be alive. They got to welcome back their family, and see their friends. He got to do all that, but it’s different for him. 

He feels numb. Entirely numb, like they are preparing him for surgery and he's looking the nurse's face as he floats off, and he doesn't think about anything. He just looks forward to sleeping. 

School is okay, it's boring. He's learnt all of it, or he doesn't want to learn it. 

He feels dead. He wakes up, get ready, patrols if he can, goes to school, finishes school, patrols, home, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. The days are all the same and he hates it. 

He does things, sometimes. to test himself. He swings through the city, and for a moment where his stomach jumps to his throat, he doesn't catch himself, and then his arm shoots out, half just from muscle memory. He recovers on a ledge and laughs, for sure he's alive. 

Ned is still his best friend, and they still watch Star Wars together, only now MJ’s there, watching next to them or doing her homework as they fool around with lego. 

Flash is making some bullshit comments he doesn't wanna hear and Peter's walking away from him and clenching his hands around the straps of his backpack. Flash chases him and catches up, one hand on his shoulder turning him around and he’s saying something again, but Peter's ears are too full with his own rage for him to hear. Flash has been tormenting him for years, he’s hurt him and humiliated him and done so many horrible things Peter can't even remember and what he feels for him is so close to hate maybe it is, so when his fist collides with Flash’s face, maybe it’s not such a surprise after all.

Peter’s brain is operating slower than his body, so it takes a moment for his operating software to realise that there’s one hand holding Flash's collar so he can't escape and the other delivering a right hook to the side of his face again and again. There’s commotion around him and shouting and Peter doesn't care for once. 

He doesn't stop.

Peter’s finally feeling something: it’s white-hot anger, bubbling and seething, bursting through his hands and into Flash’s face.

There’s yelling, people shouting, and then a pair of arms grabbing ahold of him. Peter whips back, throwing the person trying to restrain him across the hallway. His vision focuses, it’s the principal, Mr Morita. He’s on the ground, holding his ribs and wheezing. 

All of it hits him then, glancing down to see Flash, on the floor and moaning, the horrified faces of the students, the blood on his face. He needs air. He needs to get out. He needs to be back in his bubble, because there at least it was safe and familiar even if it was mind-numbing. 

He starts to run, pushing past students and along the corridor to the school doors, the receptionist screams at him to stop and he doesn't even think about obeying an authority figure’s orders for once.

He burst through the doors, scrambling down the steps. It’s a typical mid-Manhattan day, tall buildings and yellow cabs and a few businessmen wearing coats and holding briefcases like they’re actually important. Peter used to think they were, but it doesn't matter anymore. Life is just chance. It _was_ chance. 50/50 and it doesn't matter what you did, who you were. You're just gone. 

He hesitates for a moment, unsure where to go, wholly disorientated. The whole world twirls and spins in front of his eyes, all he can hear is his heartbeat, and he’s panicking so hard he can't even think.

Three cop cars swerve into the school car park, closely followed by a military-esque transport vehicle. The police officers unload immediately, hollering things like in the movies. 

He takes one step back and the audible sound of guns cocking echo in his ears. 

The transport vehicle's door opens in the back and soldiers clad in black jump down, arranging themselves into a formation. They've got guns and kevlar vests, and they look like they're not afraid to shoot a 15-year-old. 

Lastly, a huge, four-wheels black SUV screeches up, and out steps a man he hasn't seen since Tony Stark’s funeral. 

“Hey, Peter,” he calls out easily, and it’s like he’s bumped into him on the street. But he hasn’t, has he?

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t, can he? 

“You’ve made a bit of a mess.”

He can feel people, students, probably MJ and Ned in there too, crowding at the doors, all staring, pointing, whispering. He feels like the prisoner at his execution, staring out into the crowd. 

“Come with us, Peter. End all of this.”

“End what?” he shouts, and their staring itches up his spine.

“I know you’ve been hurting. We can help.”

It’s pointless to deny, but he does. “I’m not hurting,” and he sounds like a child. 

Fury switches tack. “Did any of you ever wonder why some random kid from Queens got one of the most sort-after positions in the tech industry?” It’s said to the crowd behind him. Peter turns and watches them all shift under the weight of the question. 

He laughs when no one answers. He laughs at strange things now, the blank ceiling when it’s been staring at him for hours. Sometimes, when he’s doing his Spider-Man thing, he’ll see old people sitting on a bench, or a couple fighting on the sidewalk, or through their window, people playing the violin, or making dinner, or doing a thousand other mundane things, and he laughs hard enough to crack a rib. He’s got little pieces of their lives now, stuck in his pocket, and they’ll never know. Fury speaks again, and his focus snaps back to real life. 

“Peter, this place isn't for you! You aren't made for this. You can be more. We can make you more, we’ve done it before!”

“Oh yeah, like the Winter Soldier? What happened to Bucky Barnes, sir!”

“That wasn't us!”

Peter tips his head, “wasn’t it?”

Fury looks down, mumbling something. When he looks up, his face is a stone, _“_ I know you're hurting, but we can help. We can help you, Peter. Training, counselling, control.” Fury nods backwards, reminding him of the arsenal of people that would shoot him without thinking twice. “Get in the car.”

Peter looks back at the crowd. They look scared. They do. His eyes find Ned, and then MJ, next to him. He looks at them, and they look back, and at the blood dripping off his knuckles, and the soldiers behind him. That's when he realises. 

He does have to go.

Ever since everything happened, since the bite, his life has been spiralling. He’s too big and bloody and violent for the life of a 17-year-old geek. He’s ripping out of it and discarding the pieces. 

He looks at Ned and MJ. His only friends, the girl he maybe could have liked, and he turns. Back to Fury, back to the guns pointed at him and the future he’s bound to have.

He holds up his hands, above his head, and walks towards Fury. 

“Hello, Mr Parker,” He says, almost softly. 

“Hey," is all Peter can get out, and his throat is closing up.

“You made the right decision, kid.”

For a second time today, he doubts an authority figure’s word. 


	2. Chapter 2

Training is hard, but he likes the routine of it, the efficiency. 6:00 am wakeups, 9:00 pm lights out, 2-minute showers. He has a clear set of instructions and only has to follow them, like computer code. The uniforms are fine, they're bearable apart from being hellscape hot, they have to wear big black combat boots and thick military cotton, Kevlar and bulletproof vests sometimes when they're running drills. 

He's partly trained with the bulk of SHIELD initiates, but also on his own, as an “enhanced being" as they call him. 

Those are worse than anything else, they poke and prod all day, and stuff him in giant whirring machines that scan his brains and x-ray his liver, or something. They make him run, work out, to measure signals or heartbeat. The old him -- the one that made web formula in his desk drawer when nobody was looking -- would have been so interested in all of it, but Peter doesn't really care anymore. 

At least with everyone else he can pretend to be normal. When they fetch him from their barracks, he feels all of the alien he is. Sometimes he wonders what that spider bite truly did to him. Sure, he lost his glasses and got abs, but what it _really_ do to him? It took his whole, human DNA and twisted it, carved it into something different and against the force of nature. Mutated it into something out of Chernobyl or a bad sci-fi movie. 

He sometimes sees Nicky dear overseeing his training. He just kinda stands there, behind the observational glass. Usually, he can't see him, but Peter can still tell. Spidey-sense, all that. He never waves, but turns his head and looks directly at him. He likes to think he’s freaking him out. Then again, who freaks out Nick Fury?

Sometimes he imagines that Mr. Stark is there too, right next to Nicky. He’d be wearing his sunglasses and leaning back on his heels, making sarcastic quips.

But he isn't, and so Peter turns his head away and back to the scientists watching him like a lab rat, and runs a little harder. 

—

  
  


His teammates are nice, he’s in a barrack with maybe 20 people, but most of them avoid anyone else. They disappear sometimes too, here one day, gone the next. They're nor the people that Peter would have ever known. 

There’s Perez, from Texas, with a tangy drawl that drapes itself over every word he says and lays there like honey. He’s goofy, and loud and sometimes vaguely irritating, but the best people are. 

Moriarty, who’s got quick eyes. He doesn't talk much, but he listens. He reminds Peter of a rat, but he doesn't think he means harm. 

And Silovitch, with dark hair. He doesn't talk much but laughs at everyone’s jokes. He seems kind, there's a fondness in his eyes when he looks at Peter that speaks to backstory, somewhere. 

They all like him well enough, he thinks. A few questions about his age, about his background. 

“C’mon Parker, what's your tragic backstory?” Perez drawls. “We’ve heard everyone else’s, and I wanna hear the origin story.”

He shrugs, tries not to answer the question. He doesn't care, necessarily, he's been so removed from all that, but it's had. 

“Don't bother the kid,” Silovitch pitches in. “He doesn't wanna answer.”

“God, you two are wet blankets. This is some real team bonding going on,” Perez argues.

Peter makes a decision. “It’s okay. I don't mind. He swallows. “I’m from New York, Queens in fact," — God, it feels weird to tell strangers about himself — “I’ve been an orphan since about three years old, my Aunt May and Uncle Ben raised me until he died a few years ago. I had a scholarship to Midtown High School, that big fancy one? I had friends there, a life. I took a girl to Homecoming,” he smiles a little and remembers Liz. He’s sorry for how it turned out, but he’s glad because he never could have loved her. Not really. Not like she should be loved.

“Oh, does Petey have a girlfriend?” Perez pokes fun off, hanging off his bunk. 

He almost laughs. “No. Well…” he thinks of MJ, but that's stupid, because MJ would never like him like that. He doesn't even like MJ like that. “No, that girl lives in Oregon now.”

“So, how old are you?” Silovitch asks. It’s such a feeble way to measure someone. He’s 17, and he’s fought aliens multiple times, died, swung through the streets of New York, subsequently become famous and fighting crime, met the Avengers and that's not even half of it. God, he feels old. 

“I’m 17,” he admits. It feels strange. You don't usually talk about your age. 

“That’s not legal, is it?” Silovitch says from the bunk across from Peter, where he’s reading a magazine. 

Moriarty says, “if you really care about legality, maybe this is the wrong job for you.

“Why do you keep getting pulled away?” Daniel asks, folding his laundry so neatly you could use the edge of the fold like a ruler.

Should he tell them? He's never really told people, only other superheroes and Ned, do they count? It’s not like he’s still Spider-Man. It’s not like there’s anything on the line. “I, uh, went on a field trip. Got bit by a spider.” He hopes that’s enough, but it's a small hope. 

Perez looks confused.“What's that got to do with anything?”

“I got powers. I used them.” It sounds so goddamn simple. It’s strange. It takes all the -- ironically -- power away from the word. Power can be anything. Like the power the French government has over their country, or the power of an engine, or the 2000 watt power your kettle uses, or yes, the power of a teenage superhero. 

Silovitch is smiling. He knows. Perez is only half-listening, but he's catching on now. 

It’s Moriarty who guesses, though. “You're Spider-Man.”

He sighs, “not anymore.”

“But you were.”

Peter leans over, and grins, feels pride bloom in his chest — how long has it been since he’s felt things like that? — and whispers, “damn fuckin’ right I was.”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

They're sending him to a therapist. He asks if it's normal procedure and is met with stony silence. So, it's not, then. Once a week they plan to take him to New York from — wherever he is. The drive is long and he’s sure unnecessarily complicated if he knows Fury. 

They get there and Peter takes a moment before he steps out of the car and into the tall building where his mental stability lies. 

“You going?” the driver asks. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, and opens the door. He steps out and just breathes in New York City air for the first time in months. He loves this city. For a moment, he thinks of May, across the city in Queens, and how long it would take him to get there vs. how long it would take SHIELD to catch him. He doesn't do it, however much he wants to, and just walks into the lobby of the building, ignoring the countless eyes that must be on him. 

The lobby is nice. Fancy, all-white walls and floors with black vinyl couches. He wonders where he’s meant to go when someone approaches him. 

  
“This way, Mr. Parker,” she says. She’s young, pretty, blonde hair tied back and wearing what he supposes is a professional outfit, crisp white blouse, black pencil skirt. She starts to lead him across the room, towards the elevators. 

“Where am I going?”

“Your therapy session, of course, Mr. Parker.” They’ve reached the elevator doors, where he steps inside and she says, “Floor 9, Mr. Parker.”

He reaches out and presses the button, and her smiling face closes from view. 

When he gets to floor 9, a door is open and a woman is waiting for him in the corridor. 

“Hello, Peter,” the lady says. She's pretty. Brown hair, glasses. Nerdy, but kind of a cute way. She's in her mid-thirties, there's an engagement band on her finger. She seems smart. 

Her office is disgustingly stereotypical. Beige walls, nice carpet, coffee table with some weird basic decoration thing on it that's meant to be abstract art, tissues, a pitcher of water and glasses. There’s an armchair instead of a couch, though. Still motel art on the walls, though. Just looking at it makes him shiver. God, he got sent here when he was younger, after Ben died. He spent his hour a week coloring while the lady tried to ask him questions. Suffice to say, he doesn't have particularly fond memories. 

“Hello,” Peter says back. He’s normal. He’s normal. He doesn't wanna fucking tear his intestines out with a spork. Of course not. He goes and sits down on the armchair, and takes just a moment to calculate all the escape routes in his office. Door, window, there’s a vent there too. Limited options, but enough. He wonders when he started doing that, counting every way someone could enter or exit. 

“My name's Dr. Martin, it’s very nice to meet you. I want to remind you that this is a safe space, by principal and by law.” she clears her throat, and it feels like that little pop up ‘terms and conditions’ that everyone checks yes to but never reads. “Now, Mr. Fury told me a little about your issues.” She smiles and shifts a little in her chair. He looks past her, and seven stories down there’s a hot dog vendor selling hotdogs, he can smell it. There's a couple having a fight in the building next to them. Everything’s on 11, and he has been since the bite, even if he doesn't want it to be. Yay, superpowers. 

“Peter?” she reminds gently, leaning forward. He snaps back to attention. great, now she’s gonna think he’s got _more_ issues

He coughs. “Yes, sorry. Go on.”

“I was just saying that Mr. Fury informed me a little of your background and possible issues.”

“What? That I knew Tony Stark?” the words are out of his mouth before he realizes. 

He's got her vague sense he's made a mistake as the words leap out of his mouth. Dr. Martin doesn't hesitate. “Among other things, Yes.” It’s such an understatement, saying you know Tony Stark. Only a few people out of the 8 billion on this earth have ever known Tony Stark, and he’s not one of them. 

“Anything else?” he needs to know what Fury’s up to, what he thinks, what he knows about. 

“You were Spider-Man too, weren't you?” Dr. Martin says. It’s weird, people knowing about a secret identity. Well, it’s not really his anymore. Hah. that's funny. Half of his life for the last 2 years, gone. Just like that. Maybe he’ll get a copycat and it’ll carry on. He doesn't know if he hopes for that or not. 

“Yeah. I was Spider-Man.” _was._ Now he’s not. It's so strange to admit. Dr. Martin is talking, but Peter's mind is whirling, and the lights are too much, and he can hear someone in the room two doors down from them sobbing, and he just can't take it anymore, maybe it’s his spidey sense or maybe it's just his anxiety but either way he can't handle it anymore, and he's got to breathe, he's got to get out of this little box pressing down on him. 

So, he runs. It feels like all he ever does now. He’s off the armchair, and past the beige and the motel art, and he’s sorry to say he spills the water. Everything in his body tells him to keep going, even as Dr. Martin scrambles after him, calling his name. 

He ends up on the roof, in the fresh air, as fresh as you can get in New York. The building is pretty high, and the top of it is just concrete, with air conditioners dripping water and big vents whirring away like sleeping giants. Peter closes his eyes and listens to it all, the hum of the machinery, the street, every other building on the block. He melts into it all, becomes another air conditioner, another vent. Just another lump of lifeless metal and plastic. It's nice. It's calming, and for a moment he wishes he were just an air conditioner.

After a minute, or two, or maybe 200, — counting is overrated, anyway. Who needs clocks? — he gets up. The world goes back into focus, and Peter breathes out everything, spreads his arms open, and waits for it all to make sense again. For the jigsaw puzzle of his life to slot together, make something coherent. If he was a novel or a script for a movie, it’d be in fucking shambles. Like, the entire thing is just the moment before the hero gets it all together and defeats the villain. Only, he's the villain, and nothing is going to get better, because you can’t reverse what he’s done. You can't reverse what’s been done. 

He pulls his arms back down to his side, curls his fingers into the fabric of his pants to try and bring himself back down to reality. 

No use waiting for that. 


	4. Chapter 4

“You want to see your aunt again?” Fury’s in their barrack for the first time ever, and he looks so out of place with this long trench coat and all-black like some bitch from 2007, especially when Moriarty’s folding underwear on his bed.

Peter sits up so fast he gets black spots in his vision, and it takes a moment for his head to clear. “What? Yeah, yeah of course.” The others look around a little curiously. They don't get offered home visits, but everyone knows that Peter is different, in some way or another. 

Nick nods. “Okay. You get an hour. Don't tell her anything.” it’s that simple, now? He hasn't seen his aunt in months. 

He’s sure she was told, one way or another, what happened, via government employee or gossip, she knows. She should, anyway. 

He doesn't know what he’s gonna say, what he’s gonna do. 

\--

He gets there by a featureless black SUV driven by a man who does not talk or look at him. It reminds him of Happy and afternoons at Stark Tower, and the thought is enough to make him feel sick, right low in his stomach. Even with the feeling in his stomach, he forced himself to look out the window, gather and research as much information as he could. It's the first time he's been out of the compound, apart from therapy, since this all started, and he almost doesn't know what to think. It’s all the same, really. Nothing has changed, but he has. 

They get to his old home, and Peter almost doesn't want to leave the car. Here, it’s fine, it’s okay. Out there? No. His bubble will have popped, he is too close to reality already. 

But he’s got to, he’s got to see May and he’s gotta take this opportunity because she doesn't know when it will come again. 

He reaches out, to open the door. “One hour,” the man driving reminds him. Peter nods and his clock starts.

He forgot how many stairs you have to climb to get to his apartment. 6 flights. He used to do this every day, but now his legs have forgotten what you're meant to do, what steps creak and what ones don't. It feels like a dream, but not one you just woke up from, one you had as a child and just barely remember years later. 

“Peter?” she says, like she can't believe it.

“Aunt May,” he says, and she slaps him, the sharp crack echoes in the hallway. It doesn't really hurt, but it does take a second to compute. 

“What the — the _fuck!”_ she says sharply. Aunt May Doesn't swear. “You can’t leave like that, Peter!” she’s furious and angry one minute, and then pulls him into a desperate hug. He grips her, inhales deeply, and tries to remember what everything was like before all this happened.

“Where have you been?” she demands, pulling back to get a good look at him. “I got a letter, and someone came to talk to me, well, threaten, after I made some noise, but —” she cut off, her breathing coming rapidly, and waited for him to answer. 

He hesitates, and Nick’s words from earlier float back to him. _Don't tell her anything._ “I’ve been...working for the government, as a soldier. What did they tell you?”

“Some bullshit about you and your powers and, oh, god, I thought you were a lab-rat somewhere!”

“No,” well, yeah, kinda, but he’s not gonna tell her that, “I’m okay, May, I'm happy.”

She realizes they’re standing in the landing of a New York apartment block in Queens, if she's not careful, half the city will know by nightfall. “Come in, come in,” she ushers, and he steps inside what used to be his home, so long ago, it feels. 

She closes the door and turns again. She tears up. “You scared me so much.”

He looks down. “I’m sorry. I'm sorry,” he says again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Then why don't you come back?”

“I can’t, Aunt May. I'm…” he's got to tell her. This is Aunt May. Nicky can stuff it. “I work for SHIELD now. I'm enhanced. They won’t let me go like that, an unsupervised enhanced playing hero.”

“You weren't _playing_ , Peter,” May says softly, “You're as close to a hero as anyone I've ever met.”

“Mr. Stark used to… he’s the reason I wasn't brought in before.”

“I know you’re hurting, baby, but that man doesn't deserve it, as great as he was, for you to spend so much of your life wasting your potential.”

“What am I doing now?” he says softly. 

She sighs. There's only so long you can talk about this before the questions and the answers and overwhelming size of it all drowns you and crowds you and you drown in it all. “Sit down. I’ll tell you the gossip.”

There's not really any gossip, just everyone being worried and May being lost and, ms. Zielinski down the hall got _another_ cat, on top of the 13 she already has. 

It makes him feel worse, rather than better, then back again, so fast he feels sick again. How much has he really missed out on? What more will he miss? Those pieces of lives in his pocket, they're spilling out and getting lost in the sea of yellow taxi cabs and buildings that make up New York City.

He gets up to get some water, Aunt May follows, perhaps paranoid that he's going to disappear again, and as he passes his closed bedroom door, Peter can't help but stop and reach forward to open it.

It's just as messy as he left it, only now there's dust over everything. "I didn't touch it," May says. “In case you came back," her voice wavers at the end. 

He doesn't say anything, just steps inside. Everything’s still there, like she said, only covered in dust. It feels different in here lifeless, is the word. This room is only a room. 

He does a loop, dodging dirty laundry, half-built lego. His bed is still unmade. His suit is shining in the closet, like a piece of fucking dry cleaning. He pulls it out and looks at it. He can't imagine stepping back inside, swinging through the streets. He guesses he’s not the same person anymore. He doesn't even know if it would still fit.

He walks over to his desk, where his books lay, with a scribbled formula for webbing and some notes. He flips through it, and a bright yellow post-it note falls out of the pile. He picks it up, and it’s MJ’s scrawled writing, from her favorite black pen. It’s nothing much, it really isn't. She won't even remember it, and he hadn't either. _Eng. essay due today 4th period. You're first! Good luck, loser :(_

He remembers that assessment. It was about Of Mice and Men. He got a A-. MJ got an A+, and rubbed it in his face for like a week. 

He sits in his chair and stares at the note. 

He looks back at May, and she’s nearly crying, tears hovering around her waterline like concerned mothers. Peter gets up and rushes to the door where she is, and hugs her, hard.

“It’s just,” she sobs into his shoulder, “seeing you in that room again —”

“I know, May,” he hushes. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” He’s said it so many times but it will never mean as much as he wants it to. 

Peter closes his bedroom door and pushes them towards the kitchen, where he gets his water, and May exclaims about making dinner. 

“I won't be here that long, May,” he is forced to say, and her face falls. 

“Right. Right, sorry. I forgot.” There's a moment of silence, and he can see it ticking in her head, like a clock, like a stopwatch. “Why did you go, Peter?” he looks up and may’s watching him sadly. 

“I had to,” he says simply

She shakes her head. “No, you didn't _have_ to. You choose to. There's a difference.”

“After...everything. The snap and Mr. Stark, I —”

“I grieved too, Peter!” she snaps, “I grieved you! For five years! And you don't see me running off to work with shady government agencies!” He looks down, and he’s ashamed, low in his belly. “Now, stop it, Peter, because I know it was hard for you, but it’s been hard for me too. I lost your parents, I lost Ben, and then I lost _you_ , Peter. And that is almost too much for me. So don't say you needed to go. Because you didn't.”

Now he’s ashamed. 

“Oh, god,” she sighs, “sorry, I'm sorry. That was… bad of me.”

“It’s okay, May.”

She smiles at him, and wipes her eyes. “You want a snack, then?”

“How about Thai?” he suggests. 

She smiles. “Oh, of course!”

They go down to the little restaurant around the corner. 

They step inside, and it’s all the same. Their server comes to the table, and his face lights in surprise when he sees Peter, but he doesn't say anything.

“The usual?” he asks May.

“Yes,” she nods. 

“And for you?” He turns to Peter. 

They've forgotten his order. It's not like he expected them to remember, but it seems like the final nail in his coffin. “Uh, the same,” he says. 

Their food comes quickly, and Peter forgot how sheer _good_ it is. 

He digs in, groaning. “This,” he says through a mouthful, pointing down at his spicy Pad Thai, “brilliant.”

May laughs, looking at him like nothing ever happened, and he feels like he never left.

They eat, and chat, and Peter feels as close to normal as he has in _such_ a long time. He asks about everything but SHIELD or MJ or Ned or Flash or the Avengers or Spider-Man or Tony Stark, but it's the best talk he’s had in such a long time. They talk about small, pointless things. They talk about politics and what May’s reading and the weather. Soon, they've finished their meals, and the check lands on their table.

He checks his watch. It’s almost time. 

Aunt May Watch him, “Don't you go, Peter,” Aunt May says furiously, “don't you dare.”

He gets up, and so does she, wordlessly, she hugs him.

He closes his eyes, rests against her shoulder for one blissful moment. “I have to go,” he murmured, “I larb you."

She sighs. “I larb you too, Peter,” and releases him. This is how it must be, he tells himself. 


	5. Chapter 5

His first mission is in France. All he has to do is set a little cottage in the French Alps on fire. Simple, apparently. Fury’s letting him off easy, the others joke. He finds it hard to laugh. He flies into Charles DeGaul easily, and as he’s unbuckling his seatbelt he looks at a pair of giggling 20-somethings, eyes wide with excitement, and he imagines a different life, where he’s there instead of them, with Ned or Mj or both of them, and they're about to backpack around Europe and see all the sights, and swim in the Medterian and go to Venice and eat gelato. Peter gets swept away by his fantasy for a moment, and barely fishes his backpack from under the seat in front of them before scrambling into the line, nodding gratefully at whoever let him in.

From there, SHIELD arranges transport. He spends the next 2 days using a variety of transport methods. He arrives in the Alps, standing outside a bus station, and lets the snow rain down on him. 

He thinks about New York winters, skating in the Rockefeller center, the big Christmas tree, Santas on street corners, Christmas day, Ned, May. His old life.

No one is inside, but it's a safe-house for spies and contains important papers. That's what he's told, anyway. He thinks Mr. Stark would never let him do this. He’d never let him even talk to Fury, let alone perform missions for him. Mr. Stark’s not here anymore, he reminds himself.

He breaks a window to get inside, and once he does, he walks around. It’s a nice house, expensive looking. Wood paneling, carpet, antique furniture. He finds some mail on the side table. It’s in French, and Peter doesn't want to see the name on it, so he walks away before he can read it. Knowing the name is a level of culpability he cannot muster. 

He pauses at the staircase leading upstairs. He can’t put this off forever. He’s a SHIELD agent now, it’s his job. 

He turns away, and passes the longe, he stops, turns, eyes scanning over the fireplace and couches and an expensive-looking vase. Most importantly, There’s a wall-to-wall bookshelf, stuffed to the bursting. He ghosts forwards and decides another minute or two can't hurt. He trails his fingers along the spines, Fyodor Dostoevsky, John Steinbeck, Vladimir Nakabok, Donna Tartt, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ted Hughes, Slyvia Plath, William Golding, Chuck Palahniuk, Stephen Chbosky, Stephen King, Anne Frank, William Shakespeare, Charles Bukowski, Mary Shelley, Lord Byron, Oscar Wilde. He is faced with the genuine reality that MJ would absolutely die for this room. He can imagine her here right now, head bent, fingers flicking through pages, curls drifting down from her head. Peter steps back, and looks at where she would be sitting, on the rose-colored couch, the type only old, rich people own. 

He smiles at the image of her and finally turns away, ready to do the job he came here for. 

  
  


He’s halfway to his pickup point when he sees the explosion. A bellow of exploding glass, a flash of light and fire. It doesn't billow up into the sky like in the movies, but sticky black smoke blocks out the stars for a moment. He stops still, and watches it, for a moment, congratulates himself. Snow is falling lightly, and the stars above him are brighter than New York City, at least. He feels at peace, watching this destruction. He’d been disgusted with himself a few months ago, he’d never have done it, and right now he’d be racing down the hill to try and help anyone inside. 

He’s not that person anymore. He’s not that vigilante anymore. 

  
  


…

  
  


“I heard you went on your first mission,” Dr. Martin says.

“Yeah,” he says succinctly. 

She tilts her head slightly, “How was that?”

He shrugs. “It...wasn't anything. It was easy. I was numb. I hardly felt anything.”

“Hardly?”

He swallows. “I...in the living room, there was this big bookcase and it was stuffed, absolutely _stuffed_ ,” he’s talking and he can hear the excitement and the fervor build in his chest, and burst out his throat, and he’s grinning, too. “And, god, I just — I could help but imagine MJ there, reading, and she’d love it, she’d be absolutely engrossed. She wouldn't even go outside.”

“Who is 'MJ’?” she asks, and Peter feels as if he's made a mistake.

“She’s...my friend. Michelle Jones. Uh, she loves reading, and she’s kind of cynical and sardonic, but I don't know. There's something there.”

“Why do you think you thought of her at that specific moment?”

“I don't know,” he shrugs, “I burnt down a house in France. She wasn't in any way connected to that.”

“Maybe she was.”

He laughs, “how?”

“Well, maybe that was your subconscious, reminding you of the life you used to have. Maybe it was a goodbye. Did you ever say goodbye?”

“No. I — I was here, and then I was gone. Just like that.”

“Do you think you need closure?”

He raises an eyebrow, “do _you_ think I need closure?”

She clicks her tongue, looking like she’s decided against herself in order to answer him. “I do. You didn't say goodbye. You didn't say anything. You were gone in, what, half an hour? If that. That's why I recommended you visit home.”

“That was you?” he feels an overwhelming appreciation for her, at that moment. He would have never gone to therapy himself, but he's happy he’s here. He thinks people would be proud of him, Ned and MJ, and Tony Stark. 

She smiles. “Yeah. How was seeing your Aunt May?”

“It was good. Sad. I...I’m glad it happened. I got to go home.”

She smiles at him. “How are you doing with your grieving?”

He swallows hard. “I don't think of him enough, now.”

“Why don't you think of him as much?”

“I'm busy. I train, and I get poked at by the men in the white coats, and I train again. Then I sleep, and then I wake up.”

“When was the last time you thought of him?”

“The mission, it -- it made me miss him a little more.”

She tilts her head. “Why?” she’s got such analyzing eyes, maybe that's why she became a therapist. 

he almost laughs as he says it. “He would never let me do anything like that.” it’s true. Looking back, he did everything in his power to make sure he was ready. He’d been annoyed when it all happened, he’d hated him for it a little bit, but he wasn't ready. 

“Is that good or bad?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a fact.”


	6. Chapter 6

He’s in the upper-level SHIELD offices to see Fury about complications with his last mission when he hears it — there had been issues with extraction, something about Russian gangsters and crystal meth, but y’know, shit happens, he’d only had to spend two more days in Australia — “Peter?”

He turns, expecting — well, not expecting anything. No one calls anyone their first name here. It’s military. Peter kind of likes it. It gives him distinction. There's before and after. Peter and Parker. They are not the same.

The person who called his name -- It’s Mrs. Potts, wearing a smart business suit with her hair bright and running down on the shoulder like a river of stars. She looks shocked, her lips open, eyes wide. He feels like her facial expression. He hadn't ever expected to see her again, and some part of him believed that if they ever crossed paths again, she wouldn't know his name. He guesses it hasn't been long enough. 

“Mrs. Potts?” he hears himself say, although he doesn't register it. 

“Peter,” she says again, like she can't believe it, like it is as if someone told a time traveler from the past about a touchscreen. She steps towards him in the same way people step towards scared animals. Peter looks down, ashamed. This is not who he used to be. He wonders what he looks like now, to her eyes. 

“How — how are you?” she stutters, and she doesn't know what to say either. The realization is light in Peter's chest. 

“I’m okay,” he says, soft. “I'm working for SHIELD now, obviously,” he nods around to their surroundings. She laughs. 

She smiles, and the lines around her eyes crinkle. “I know. I heard what happened. I did try to find you, but…” her silence says it all. 

“You couldn't.” he fills in. “Fury stopped that, I bet.”

“Yeah,” she nods, like it sums up something larger. Maybe it does. The collective loss of function. Peter thinks about how Mr. Stark would have hunted for him ruthlessly. 

“Are you...alright?” He doesn't know how to ask her if she is coping with the traumatic death of her husband. The question cannot be ignored, but it cannot be asked. 

She looks a little sad, but smiles. “I’m alright. Morgan’s alright. She doesn’t understand.” Why would she? Peter didn't understand his parents dying, at that age. Later she’ll grow up, and she’ll realize who her father was, and maybe she’ll google the Wikipedia page and maybe they’ll be a little mention about Spider-Man something like,

_“After the Civil War, Stark was involved with the development of several vigilantes. Most notably, Spider-Man, a masked hero who worked mainly at street level for a number of years in New York City, identity unknown to this day.”_

And she might clink the hyperlink attached to his name, and she might read about him, about the young vigilante who swung through the city and only ever tried to help people, had succeeded, for a while, but she won’t know. She won't know who he is or who her father was to him. And that's okay. Because the world doesn't need to know about them, because there was nothing. It was a few hours a week, and so many people had a few hours of Mr. Stark's time, he hardly had any for himself. 

“That's good, Ms. Potts,” he says honestly, using her maiden name. He’d not used to calling anyone Mrs. Stark, and it seems too late to change it. “It really is.”

Her face flinches at the mention of ‘Stark’ and she tells him,“Call me Pepper.”

“Okay,” he tries out, “Pepper.”

She smiles. 

People appear, apparently someone does not like them talking to each other. Honestly, Peter’s more surprised they didn't show up earlier. Pepper sees them too and almost steps backwards into their hold. They start to walk her away, and she doesn't bother resisting, not anymore, not after watching Mr. Stark resist everything for years and years. They're all tired. 

“Peter?” he looks back at her, she’s dragging her feet, and almost has to yell. “He was proud of you, Peter, he really was.”

He stares back at her, and back at his life, and only turns down the corridor to Fury’s office when she’s around the corner and gone. 

Peter would like to believe that, but he isn't Morgan, and he can't believe in fairytales anymore. 

—

“Hello, Peter,” Dr. Martin greets as he enters. She's behind her desk, working on something. 

“Dr. Martin,” he echoes, plops down on the chair. He really doesn't mind therapy anymore, it's nice, being able to vent. He trusts Dr. Martin, too. He thinks the only way Fury would ever know what he says in these sessions is if it was bugged, and not that he doubts SHIELD would do that, he doubts Fury would. She flips closed her paperwork, getting up and settling on the armchair across from him. 

“How have you been?” she asks, looking at him like she cares. Peter thinks she might. 

He shrugs. “It’s been okay. We ran new drills. They're kinda boring but next we’re learning to fly, like, planes and stuff.” God, he ‘s looking forward to that. It’s been a long time since he was in the sky. He misses that rush. That wind. 

She smiles at him. “That's good,” she says placidly and eyes him sideways. She wants to ask him something, Peter deducts, like he’s fucking Sherlock or something. He sits tights and waits for her. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like goldfish. He knows what she's about to ask. “I heard you saw Pepper Stark.” Ah, there it is. 

“Yeah,” Peter rasps, and thinks of her with her star-hair and kind eyes and words, _“He was proud of you, Peter, he really was.”_ “I saw Pepper,” that statement sounds so small. Like he ran into her at the supermarket. It’s more than that, so much more. He thinks the general rule of thumb is if armed guards drag you away from each other, it's not a casual hang. 

“She’ll be going through the same thing, you know.” 

“A thousand times worse,” Peter says, and thinks of Uncle Ben, and the hole punched into his life after his death. 

She shrugs. “Why don't you reach out?”

He looks at her, laughs, and thinks of the men dragging her away. “I'm not allowed, remember?”

She sighs out, leaning back in her chair. “Right. Damn Fury.”

“Yeah,” Peter echoes softly. “Damn Fury.”

Was it the right choice he made, all those months ago? 

God, it feels like a dream, like he can only recall scattered, shattered memories of it, and hold them in his hands for a moment. The guns, and Fury stepping out his hands, the blood on his hands, _“Come with us, Peter. End all of this.”_ Ned and MJ’s faces when they looked at him, _“You made the right decision, kid.”._

Did he? 

If you asked Peter yesterday, he would have said yes. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

ere’s an...incident with an enhanced mechanic on a rager, and Peter gets called out to deal with it along with the rest of his roommates, as Perez calls them. 

They get there and he’s yelling about the bigotry in the class system, which, _yeah_ obvi, but c'mon man u gonna dismantle the system from within or stage a bloody coup. One or the other. Don't half-ass it. 

So they go out, shoot him a couple of times, Perez gets thrown into a wall but he's mostly fine. It honestly doesn't take that long. Most of these fight don't, because they're untrained and without a gameplan once you get past 'fuck things up'.

They finish up, and obviously a group gathers past the cordon, watching the damage, watching the offender getting locked into the back of a prison transport van. Typical stuff, Peters has been in a few of these jobs. It’s funny how even extraordinary stuff becomes normal over time. There’s snapping cameras and people watching, so Peter tries to keep his face hidden, but mostly he’s just another SHIELD agent, so he doesn't really bother. Not like Spider-Man. Not like anyone cares. Not like anyone would even notice. This shit is normal to New Yorker anyway, SHIELD's more of a permanent fixture in the landscape of New York by now, like taxis and bodegas.

“Good work, Parker,” Hill says, and pats him on the back as she climbs into the front of the other transport truck,the one taking them back to base. He doesn't bother replying, because he’s a military man now, brief and succinct, he laughs at himself in his head and turns to climb into the back, where the others already are. 

“Peter!” someone roars, probably not for the first time.

He turns his head. It’s...it’s MJ. She looks the same, wild and curly and just slightly dangerous. She’s got both hands on the barrier and is leaning over as far as she can go, her face the perfect drama of conflict, eyebrows drawn together, and her whole face so worried and — well, just a whole mess of emotions Peter wants to reach out and crease it smooth. 

“MJ?” he wonders, like it’s not really her, like it's impossible. It isn't, as he can tell by her glare. 

“Peter,” she says again, or he assumes because the words are getting lost in the crowd of noise on their way to him.

He hurries forward, ignoring the truck and his responsibilities, and reaches to grab her outstretched hand. “I — I...MJ.”

She reaches forward and tugs him into a shoulder-hug, hard and close. All he can think is _wowowowowowowowowow —_ ** _fuck_ **_._

“I missed you,” Peter says, and realizes how true it is. Daniel, and Silovitch, and Perez are nice and everything, but they're not his _friends_. He couldn't stay up all night and binge movies, or joke about their most hated teachers, he likes their company, but he’s a seventeen-year-old nerd at heart and they're buff and have been preparing for this job since — since, forever. They don't care about the things he cares about. They don't care about Firefly and the intricacies of the star wars universe. They don't care about managing to pass Spanish. 

“Where have you been?” she demands, in her MJ way, fiery, like she deserves to know and he’s angry he hadn't already told her. She does deserve it, but — things are hard. Things are complicated. Things are technically classified. 

He ignores her question, and asks one of his own, “Flash?”

She pauses, just for a second, but it's enough for him to know everything he needs to, “He’s okay.”

Peter sighs. “He's not, is he?”

“He is, just...you broke his nose.” she nods. “And his cheekbone. And his jaw.” it comes spilling out of her mouth like an avalanche of truth. 

“Fuck,” Peter moans and leans into her. She smells like the books in the library and watching Star Wars at 4 am. He misses her. He misses them, he misses everything associated with her. 

“Parker!” Hill shouts at him, and he can hear the bag of the car door shutting behind her, “Hey, soldier, What part of rollout do you not understand?”

Peter turns away from MJ, as much as he hates it, as much as he doesn't want to, “yes ma’am,” he yells at her, who just raises her eyebrows. That hill for you. She takes no shit, she takes no excuses and Peter has never hated it as much as now. 

“Yeah, c’mon, Parker!” Perez yells from the truck. 

”Hold it, Perez!” Peter yells back. “I have to go,” he tells MJ, and the way her eyes go wide like she wasn't expecting it, even though she would have had to be, is almost comical. 

“Will you come back?” she asks, and holds his wrist in a death grip. He hesitates. He’s not even allowed to be talking to her right now. She sees his face and releases him, just murmuring, “Peter…” 

“I’m sorry, MJ,” he says honestly. He’s not sure what for anymore. Maybe everything. Maybe that he even met her, because all of this makes it so much harder. 

“I’m sorry too, Peter,” she says, right before leaning over the barricade and kissing him, hard and brief. She draws back and looks at him, just before he steps forward and kisses her back, it’s a little desperate. A little sad. So are they. So is Peter’s whole life, and maybe so is MJ’s. A match made in heaven. 

There are hoots from the truck, but Peter keeps kissing the girl who he just might love if he was given the chance. Is that too hasty? First kiss, and he loves her? Kind of 40-year-old virgin vibes. 

He pulls away from her in a monumental force of effort, and he can say nothing other than, “Bye, MJ,” because he’s so breathless, so shocked. He steps backward and then turns, jogging towards the truck where Perez is grinning already. 

The image of him leaving her there, gripping the barricade, wind whipping her hair away from her face will stay in his mind for a long time, plastered to the back of his eyelids when he falls asleep. 

He climbs inside, Perez clapping him on the back and Moriarty asks him in a secretive way, “who’s she?”

Peter throws himself onto the bench next to Moriarty and Silovitch, smiles, stares at the ceiling, and just laughs, “MJ.”

\--

“How are you, Peter?” Dr. Martin asks him, as polished as ever. He hates this office, he thinks passively. He really does. It can at least try and be a little groundbreaking. All these neutral colors are making his eyes burn. 

“I'm good. Really good.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? What happened?”

He leans forward in his seat like he’s telling a secret. “I — I saw MJ. I kissed her, actually.” God, that sounds juvenile. 

She smiles. “MJ? The girl from France?”

Peter laughs, MJ’s never been to France in her life. “Yeah, that girl.”

“When was this?”

“After a mission. She was passing by or something, I don't know, and she called out to me and I heard her and —”

“Dramatic reunion, blah, blah, You kissed,” Dr. Martin fills in. He likes Dr. Martin. She's funny and fresh, and not like all the other therapists he's met. May tried to send him to a couple when Ben died. Didn't turn out well. 

Peter smiles. “I don't know. Nostalgic, maybe. It makes me think about us, and my old life, and what could have happened.” 

“Do you want to be with her?”

“I don't know if I can. Seriously. I don't know who we are together.” He doesn't know who he is apart, either. It’s all a jumble.

“Do you miss that person?”

“Yeah,” he says honestly. “I do. I miss Peter Parker. I miss the things he did. The people he knew. But I don't miss him after...well, you know. I don't miss what his life would be now. I don't miss Spiderman, really. I thought I would, but no.”


	8. Chapter 8

“How are you? It's a difficult time for many people. You're not alone.”

He just shrugs. “I don't know. I don't like how people are remembering everyone.” There are posters up, and billboards, and they're gonna do a parade, he saw on his last mission. 

Dr. Marin furrows her brow, looking confused. “How are they remembering everyone?”

He's got a thick throat for some reason. “They weren't there, in the — the battlefield. They just appeared, watched their loved ones appear. The actual battle, the fight? It was..” he trails off, doesn’t know how to continue. 

“What was it like?” she asks gently. This is real therapy stuff, he thinks to himself. Wow, Peter, you're really tapping into yourself, he thinks in her voice and then laughs inside his head. 

“Bloody, and desperate, and _horrible,"_ he spits out, “It wasn't noble, or brave. No big battle is just over like that. There were leviathans — the things that came to New York the first time — and these _creatures,_ I can't even explain them. Thanos was there, I — I saw him. I saw him and I fought him, and this time we won. We won,” he says again, determined, with burning tears in his eyes, “we fucking won, and for what?”

“You saved a lot of people, Peter.”

He laughs viciously. “I bet some of them would rather be dead.”

“Would you?” she asks.

“What?”

“Rather be dead.”

He feels uncomfortable, suddenly, like he’s wearing wet clothes and the AC's turned on. “Maybe. I think...maybe sometimes I wish —”

She leans forward, “wish what?”

“If Tony Stark had lived, and I had died, things would be so different. For the better.”

“What would be better?”

“Morgan would have a father, and Pepper would have a husband. Iron-Man helped so many more people than Spider-Man ever could have hoped to,” Peter can feel the energy building in his chest. Tension and static, right in his sternum. He thinks of the arc reactor. “Tony — his — his genius, maybe he was a week off inventing a cure for HIV, or cancer, or I— I don't know. Something else revolutionary. No, instead there's another foot soldier in Fury’s army. Another pawn and they're not the valuable ones. They’re not kings.


	9. Chapter 9

The phone rings one Tuesday. He’s been upgraded out of the barracks to his own little cardboard-cutout room. It's a bit like a dorm room if Peter had gone to college. He could have. He would have if everything had gone differently. 

There’s rain pattering on the window, and Peter is reading a book at his desk, one that MJ had recommended ages ago, and he only just remembered. He's allowed a little more freedom now, so he went to the library and got it out himself. He still expects to be stopped, sometimes. For police to wail up with the sirens and lights, arrest him. SHIELD to come and get him. He wonders if Fury will ever let him go. 

He looks up sharply, towards the ceiling tile where it’s hidden. Contact with the outside world isn't forbidden, exactly, but it is not encouraged. Loose lips sink ships, Fury would say if he was a vengeful thirteen-year-old girl about to terrorize someone for narking.

He lets it ring out, and waits for her to leave a voicemail. God, who is it? Fury, telling him they know he’s got it, Ned, MJ, May? He hears it beep as the message is concluded, and he drags the chair over under the ceiling tile. He climbs up, and pops the tile up, then blindly reaches around the rim, trying to find the phone. 

His fingers close on the smooth plastic, and he withdraws his hand, putting the tile back in place and dragging the chair back over to his desk. He flips it open, finds the newest message, and — It’s MJ’s number. Yeah, he knows if off by heart, no, he's not a stalker. He just takes an interest, okay? He thinks he might remember this moment one day, hunched in a grey room, rain pattering, phone clutched in his hands like something precious. He feels just about as panicked as he did standing outside school that fateful day. 

Fingers shaking, he plays it on speaker. There's a sigh, a breath before she starts, and Peter can hear the same rain that's drumming his roof right now. _“I just wanted to tell you I'm, uh, makin’ it'" there's_ silence for a moment like she thinks he’ll respond, _“I’m going to college, Peter, NYU. Dorm 314.” S_ he does that little laugh people do when they don't know what to say.” _First in my family. I won an English scholarship,” and she laughs, and he can hear the pride in her voice, the one she barely allows, even when she deserves it._ _“Apparently I’m a strikingly distinct voice in a world of mediocrity. Or something.”_ she laughs like she doesn't know her praise off by heart. “ _I— ah, don't know if you’ll get this, but I hope you do. Come visit me in the fall, Peter.”_

She hangs up with a long beep. Peter stares at the phone for a moment, then robotically deletes the message, and dragging the chair back over to the client tile, he pops it up yet again and slides the phone back into its hiding place. 

314.

—

He spends every second of the next days thinking about the message about _her._

He doesn't say anything to anyone, even when it's dinnertime in the canteen, and all the guys are laughing, and the whole world goes soft and tired after their long day. Peter sits on the bench shyly, and looks at all of them individually, wonders what would happen if he told them. 

This isn't some defunct identity, like Spider-Man. This is a live bomb, and the nature of the training program has changed recently. As more people disappear, we become hungrier, we become more like wolves. We work harder, and we remember the mistakes people make. 

He doesn't think he likes the change he sees, not when Moriarty sneers at Silovitch in the cafeteria. Not when those who used to be friends turn on each other

Peter watches, and then turns his head and keeps going. No reason to make a scene here. 

He thinks about calling her, and he practices under his breath. He gets frustrated. He doesn't know what to say, and he stomps to the rec room to just gt out of his space, where the temptation lies in the ceiling, like some reverse The Tell-Tale Heart. 

“Hey, Peter!”

It’s Perez. “Perez,” he says warmly. He hasn't seen him in ages. He looks good, tan. 

“How are you, mate?”

He smiles tightly. “I’m good. You?”

He smiles in the same manner. 

“Good.”

They look at each other. There's nothing to talk about. 

“Any good missions lately?” He ends up asking. 

“A few,” Peter says. “Fury's been sending me out more and more often.”

“Good, good,” Perez nods.

“You?” Peter asks, almost genuinely interested.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “went a couple of months in Indonesia. Bloody hot, even for me from Texas.”

“Oh. Fun.” Pete says, and the idea of government agent workplace chatter boring the brain out of his skull is enough to make him doubt himself.

Perez looks uncomfortable. "Yeah. Anyway, I gotta be going."

Peter realizes he's a shit conversationalist. "Oh, right. Yeah, bye."

"See you, kid."

Peter just watches him go.


	10. Chapter 10

He’s got a mission in downtown Brooklyn — don’t ask, highly confidential, of course. Seems like his whole life is confidential, lately— and something tempts him. The world is full of temptations, he knows -- that phrase kind of makes him sound like some incel who is fueled by hating women and reading misquoted bible verses on the dark side of the internet. 

His pickup time is quite a lot later than usual, and he can always cite problems if he’s late, it’s not like anyone will be alive to prove him wrong. Ah, the benefits of being an assassin. They should’ve had a stall on careers day. 

So on his way to the warehouse, he makes a detour. 

He takes the steps two at a time, pushing past other commuters. He pauses at the turnstiles, watches everyone queue and file though onto the platform like littles lines of ants, programmed robots doing what they’re meant to do. 

He used to have a card, but it’s gone now. Left in his bag, probably. He watches someone jump the turnstile casually, and watches the ripple, how it disrupts the careful little line. the disapproving looks, the attendees who don't care.

He steps into the line, and like he's done it a thousand times like it's normal, he jumps the turnstile, two hands bracing on the card reader and legs over in one smooth movement.

He steps into the train, paranoid for many reasons, but no one cares. Everyone's wrapped up in their little lives, entrapped. He thinks about how he’s wrapped up too.

He makes it to the NYU dorms and pinches himself on the wrist, just to make sure he’s really doing this. 

He remembers her dorm number. 314.

He gets there and knocks on her door, one, two, three. It swings open and she's standing there, half-undone with her hair fraying out of her ponytail and falling about her face, shirt and sweats. 

“MJ,” he breathes out, and she tackles him in a hug. He wraps his arms around her, breathes in and out and tries to believe this is happening. That he's holding her or she's holding him or that they're just holding each other and breathing each other in. 

It is. It is.

“Come in,” she murmurs and hauls him inside. It looks like a normal student dorm, there is ramen on the counter and a few pictures of Michelle and her family, but not much else than that. “Why are you here?”

He looks at her, “you told me to come.”

She leans forwards and her mouth is suddenly, hot and steady. His hands land on her hips, grip there for a moment, then slide up the curve of her spine. 

“Fuck — Peter,” she murmurs and pushes him backward.

His knees hit the bed frame and he folds, spilling across her bed, MJ lands on him and they drip and collide together in spasms of the closest thing he's ever felt to divinity. He kisses her, slanted across the mouth, her collarbone, shoulder, breast. He burns himself into her skin and hopes she remembers him after he’s gone. That's all he hopes. That's all he's ever hoped. 

And after, when the whole world is soft and quiet, Peter waits. MJ's soundless and asleep next to him.

Peter puts on underwear but climbs back into bed with her. She barely shifts, and he just spends the time he has left with her. Just with her. 

Peter senses him coming, the sound of those boots on the floor and crackle of leather. He eases out of bed, shushes her when she shifts and gets dressed in the dark. 

There comes the rap on the door. Quick one, two, a beat, three. 

He freezes, watching her intently. She doesn't move. He can hear Fury about to knock again. 

"Don't!" he hisses, loud. Fury's hand returns to his side. He grabs his shoes in one hand and steps outside, closing the door behind him softly. "You'll wake her up."

"Sorry, Parker, I'll keep that in mind next time." He's obviously sarcastic, but Peter chooses to ignore that. 

"Thanks for your consideration." He does up the last button in his shirt. 

Fury laughs, honest to god, _laughs_. “Oh, Mr. Parker.”

Peter looks up, combing a hand through his hair, “Yes, sir?”

He sighs, “Just can't help but notice similarities.”


	11. Chapter 11

  
  


“Peter? Your friends gave me this number.” It's May.

“I haven't seen you in a while, uh, obviously. If you can, come around?” She sighs, pulls the phone away and mutters to herself. Peter wants to be there with her, he does. His whole heart aches for it, for nights on the couch with her, and her cooking, and eating at the Thai restaurant when it inevitably goes bad.

He phones settles against her ear again, evident and she hesitates before saying, “Come home, Peter,” May pleads, “please. Come home.”

“I love you. I miss you.”

“I love you too,” he whispers to his empty room.

__

  
  


He thinks for three days, so hard he starts bungling his training. 

“C’mon Peter,” Perez grumbles and shoves him a little. “Get your head in the game.”

“Yeah,” he puffs. “I am.” What, exactly is the game? The one he’s been playing. The wine SHIELD runs, the one that they are led to beliefs runs the world. Does it at all? Is this just some little boys playing dress-up?

He shakes his head and gets back to it.

—

He walks into Fury’s office at 1 o'clock on the dot. 

“Mr Parker,” Fury says in a grandiose way of his, although he’s slightly surprised to see him, Peter can tell.

“Fury,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath. "I came to tell you I'm done."

“Done?” Nick looks up from his undoubtedly important documents. Everything's grandly important with him. But, this seems to trump all that, at least for a moment. 

Peter‘s heart is thumping, and he feels like he's on the edge of an anxiety attack, but when he releases it's just adrenaline. “With SHIELD, with everything, I want to be Peter Parker again.”

“You don't have the right to leave, Mr Parker. You enlisted. You think the boys in France said that and they were allowed to go home?”

He sighs. "Look, this was out of respect. I could’ve left.”

“We would have found you.”

“Yeah, and I would have killed whoever you sent.” peter raises an eyebrow. He would've, that's the thing, if he had to. He remembers the kid he was when he left. He believed in different stuff. 

He changes tack. "I took you in, kid, you were hurting yourself and others."  _ Flash _ . "And I saved you."

"Yeah, you did," he admits, "thank you for that, but this military man? That's not me. I'm the perpetually broke, dumb ass Spider-Man. Not a smart, calculated agent. I'm not you, or Carol, or Natasha Romanoff. I'm just not."

Fury sighs and then reaches to his paperweight, pulling a bug from under the lip of his desk, and crushes the bug listening to them under it with a hiss of breaking the plastic.

He looks at him again and maybe looks a little pensive. “No, you're not. I should've seen that earlier.” He stands from his desk, "You're a good kid, Peter. I'm gonna let you go."

"No," Peter cuts him off. "I'm gonna go. You can't guilt me into anything, Nick."

“I knew you’d be looking for a way out eventually, you're too young. You've got too many prospects.”

Peter nods. “Thank you, sir.”

Fury clears his throat. “He’d be proud of you.”

Peter keeps his gaze low. “Who, sir?”

Fury smiles again. “You know who, Mr Parker.”

  
  


—

He stops by Dr Martin’s office.

“Peter,” she says, blinking at him. Sh’ on her lunch break, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her about the mayonnaise on her cheek, “I wasn't expecting you.”

“No, I, — I wasn't expecting it either.” Peter sits down, like he’s her patient again. 

She looks concerned. “Are you okay?”

He laughs a little, and he must look crazy. He must be crazy. That's the only possible solution. “No. I left SHIELD.”

Her face goes blank. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna go home.”


	12. Chapter 12

“May,” he says, as soon as the door opens. Behind her, there are 3 men in suits and briefcases, but you can't hide the straight spines of well-trained government agents once you know what to look for. 

Peter swears and takes off down the stairs, May yelling out behind him. He hears one of the men shout, and then 3 pairs of feet clatter after him. 

"fuck, fuck, fuck," he chatters under his breath, running down the stairs, breakneck speed — that's about to be ironic, huh — bolting out the door onto the NYC street.

He’s wearing vans and suddenly misses his big clunky army boots, because they were actually easier to run in. 

People scatter out of his path as she's sprinting, a couple of middle-aged guys in suits chasing him, and Peter suddenly realises he looks like every other kid in New York city getting into trouble, and he has waited for this feeling for so long. It feels so good now it’s finally come.

He lets out a peal of laughter, he cannot help it, and when he turns to see where the agents behind him are at, all they see is his wide smile. 

He swerves into an alley and jumps for the fire escape ladder. He climbs up it, quick like a cat, and takes off. He hears a general amount of swearing behind him and he laughs again. Peter goes up a few sets of stairs and then going to god he’s counting correctly, knocks on a window.

She appears almost immediately. “Mrs Carroll!” an elderly woman with white hair in rollers.

“Peter?” she says, mouth slack.

“Let me in!” he says and looks behind him. They're still a level or two below.

He clambers inside, shutting the window behind him. The first agent gets to their level, and Peter only sticks out his tongue.

“Gotta go, Mrs Carroll! I’ll help you with your groceries sometime!”

“Thanks, Peter!” she calls weakly. 

He darts out of her apartment onto a bland hallway. He starts on the stairs, but not going down. 

He gets to the roof and jumps to the neighbouring building, close by and  _ roughly _ the same height. 

This New York he knows as well as the street level one. This is the home Spider-Man knows.

He makes quick work, hopping down from that building and taking the long way back to May’s, keeping his head down. 

Once several streets away, he fishes the burner from his pocket and dials a number. 

“Fury,” he says, as soon as the line connects. 

“Parker,” he says. He doesn't sound pleased. 

“Peter. It’s Peter now.”

“Ah,” he grunts. “You've just interrupted me from an extremely important meeting holding quite a few world leaders.

Peter smiles, just a little.“Fire me.”

Fury doesn't sound amused. “Funny. Why are you calling,  _ Peter?  _ Must be important.”

“Kinda. Was it you that sent those agents to my apartment?” if it wasn't him then he's in trouble. 

He can  _ hear  _ Fury's ears perking up. “ _ Your _ apartment, huh?”

Peter shrugs, wondering why he's on this tangent. “Yeah. I live there. That makes it mine.”

“Well, I thought the commute would've been too long, how long does it take to get to Massachusetts, three hours?"

"What?"

"Don't you know where MIT is, Peter?" Fury says innocently. 

Peter snorts. “I’m not going to MIT.”

“Yes, you are, Peter. I pulled a few strings.” his stomach drops, and she stops short on the street. 

“What?” 

“Have fun in Massachusetts. From what I know, Tony had a lot of fun there.”

Fury hangs up on him. 

_ what _ .

—

He gets back to their apartment block and runs up the stairs, getting to their floor.

“May! Aunt May!” he bangs on the door. She opens it after a spilt secund at most, phone dangling from her hand.

“Peter!” she flings herself into his arms, and they just hug for a moment.

“What's going on?” she finally asks.

“I'm back, I told Fury to stuff it — well, not in those words, but —”

She steps closer to him. “You’re back?” she asks. 

“I'm back,” he nods. “And I'm going to MIT

Her face slackens. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Fury’s not a total sack of shit. He got me into MIT, apparently.”

“How?”

“I don't ask,” h laughs

“Oh my god, peter! Oh my god!”

He laughs and smiles, and it all seems alright.

  
  


—

He goes to visit Ned first. He's too nervous for MJ right now. 

His apartment is only a few blocks away, but it seems longer than usual. Peter’s nervous, awfully nervous, stomach tightening, a sick feeling low in his belly. 

He gets to his building, takes a deep breath and presses the buzzer. 

His mother answers. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs Leeds. It’s Peter,” he says. There's disappointing silence from the other end, “Uh, Parker? Peter Parker?” he says hesitantly. 

“Yes, yes, Peter, I know you, it’s just…” she trails off, and he understands. 

“I’ll explain when I get inside.”

She buzzes to let him up, and has never been so excited to see a functioning elevator in his life. The doors are on his floor, and end in the hallways already, waiting for him.

“Peter!” Ned cries, and pulls him into a hard hug. “Oh my god, I thought I would never see you again,” he whispers against Peter's shoulder.

“Me too, Ned,” and Peter feels like laughing and crying simultaneously. 

He draws back. ”What are you doing here?”

He grins. “I'm a defector, Ned.”

Ned laughs. “Oh, god, Peter. I knew you’d do it, I swear.”

“I know.”

The door to the apartment opens, and his sister and his mom come spilling out. “Peter!” his sister, runs towards him and wraps around his leg, chattering.

“Hey, Ellie,” he laughs and prises her off his leg with the help of Ned. “How are you?” She's this furry little thing, 8 years old but with a ferocity unknown to man.

“I'm so great! Hannah got kicked off the soccer team for biting Meredith, so I get to play, and this week I was ‘most helpful and —”

“That's enough,” Ned cuts in. “He just got back, we don't want him running away again. “

“Where did you go?” she asks curiously. 

Peter hesitates, some strange part of him kind of wants to answer,  _ well I was trained to be a highly functioning spy that doubled as an assassin. Also, I'm Spider-Man.  _ He decides against that and just says, “I went on holiday.”

“Peter,” Mrs Leeds says, stepping forward. 

“Mrs Leeds,” and he hugs her. She's always been his second mother, in a way. Always there to take care of him, and some of his best memories are around her kitchen table, eating dinner with the Leeds family. 

“Ned told me some about,” she looks down at Ellie, “about what you've been doing,” she says carefully. He ducks his head. It’s fine when it's just you, you're not embarrassed, you can explain it and rationalize it and there, it’s fine. But when it's out there, when people have it floating around their heads, that's when it becomes dangerous. “I'm glad you're home,” she is all she says, and Peter has an overwhelming swell of love for this woman. “Let’s have lunch,” she proposes.

Ellie runs inside and Ned and Peter knock shoulders and walk in as one mass. Ned’s apartment is just as he remembers, small, cosy, plants everywhere, radiator going, Ellie's drawings up on the wall and food already cooking. 

“So, what's SHIELD like?” Ned asks as they sit down.

He nods, digging into the plate set out in front of him. “It’s more bureaucratic than you’d think.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“Yeah.”


	13. fin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm finished baby!!! it's been a ride.

  
  


Ned tells him that MJ still lives in the same dorm, he stands in front of the big brick residence building he visited what seems like so long ago, for half an hour before gathering the courage to go up. He gets inside, using some of his handy spy skills. Once he’s joined the main flow of students, he realizes she could be anyone, here, and all the pieces of lives are floating around his head, and he is all of them, and he's none of them, and in his hoodie, next to a hundred other hoodies, he is normal. Normal. 

He gets in the elevator, riding up to MJ’s floor. A blonde girl makes eyes at him, and he feels himself get red in the face. 

She gets out 3 floors before him, and he sighs relief. 

“Girls, huh?” the only other occupant of the elevator, some random dude that looks like he jacks off to Reddit porn. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, too awkward to say anything else. 

He seems to find something at least vaguely interesting about him because he continues. “Are you visiting someone?”

“Yeah. My, uh, girlfriend. Maybe.” It feels strange to call MJ that. For so long she was only ‘MJ’, not even my best friend, ‘MJ’, not even, my crush, ‘MJ’.

“Maybe, huh,” he shakes his head and gets out on the next floor, “Bye, dude!” he yells backwards. 

“Bye,” he calls back weakly, unsure what to think of the whole encounter. 

The next floor is hers. The elevator doors ding as they open and ding again when he doesn't get out. He sighs and steps into the hallways. The elevator closes it’s doors and glides away. 

Dear God, is he doing this? It doesn't seem real.

He starts walking down the corridor, looking for 314. He finds it and just stands there for a moment. What if she hates him? What if she doesn't even remember him? There are too many what-ifs. But then, Peter thinks there will always be what-ifs. He’s gotta do it, he does.

He reaches out and raps thrice on her door and waits a moment for her to open. It’s not her, it’s some brunette chick with glaringly blue eyes. 

“Uhh, hey,” she says, looking him up and down. “Who are you?”

“I’m Peter...Peter Parker?” he waits for a second to see if recognition gleams in her eyes, but nothing. “Uh, is MJ there?”

“You mean Michelle?” she drawls. “No, but you can wait.”

“Okay, um, thanks,” he murmurs, she just walks away from the door to her half of the room, where she continues typing away on a MacBook. Peter sits on her bed, but that feels wrong, so then he sits on a beanbag in her corner, but that's not any better, so he just kind of hovers. 

Finally, he settles on the desk and flips through her next assignment. He waits maybe 20 minutes, and he's considering leaving, abandoning this whole thing, when she bursts through the door, an arm full of notes, hair in a messy ponytail.

“Kelly, did Matt leave his —” she stops short when she sees him, mouth agape, eyes wide, everything. 

“MJ,” he breathes out. 

Her face morphs and changes into one undeniably anger. He gets up from her desk, steps towards her to make it all better, “MJ, I—” he tries. 

“Don't you ‘MJ’ me,” she hisses, cutting his words off to the wall at his feet. What happened? The last time they saw each other….“You left me, you fucking left me in that bed, like some — some whore!”  _ oh. right. _

“Fury came...I’m sorry. I thought you knew that's how it had to be.” She’s got tears glittering in her eyes now and uses one hand to cover her face. Kelly has swivelled her chair around, openly watching them like some kind of drama show. 

“I felt  _ used _ , Peter,” she hisses, and hits him in the chest, “fucking used!”

“I —” he stammers, doesn't know what to say. It seems like he never knows what to say. 

"You can come and go, back and forward again, but I'm —”

"I'm back,” he interrupts her rant because he feels that it's important. Hell, maybe it's one of the most important things he's ever done. 

She blinks. "What?"

"I'm home. I'm done. I'm Peter Parker again. Not anything more." 

She opens her mouth, closes it again, “Oh, I — really?”

He laughs a little, it's not even funny but maybe not funny is his humour now, since... everything. “Yeah. And I'm going to MIT.”

And she throws her arms up to hug him, hard and close, just like the first time he saw her, at that barricade. “I’m so happy for you, Peter,” she whispers in his ear and squeezes him tight.

He releases something, as his hands are gripping her waist. “I love you, Michelle Jones, and I won’t ever stop,” he whispers, can't believe the nerve of him as he does. He expects to jump up and slap him or something, but all she does is make a sort of gasping sound like a sob. 

“You're such a bastard, Peter,” she whispers and then draws back from the hug kissing him instead. She breaks it off, and grinning, whispers, “I love you too. Goddamn it, I do.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD! 
> 
> This little fic has been so fun to write, I've really enjoyed it. This would be good canon, ngl. But sadly whoever controls the MCU (Disney, but talking about multi-billion dollar corporations eventually buying the rights to every series imaginable until one company has a monopoly on all pop culture is too political for you little fuckers that just came here to read a spideychelle fic huh) hasn't discovered my genius yet (also it doesn't flow as well)
> 
> anyway, this series is over, but I've got loads more on my profile, check it out :)
> 
> xx
> 
> ily foreva saturn


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